The Origin Of Love
by tarnished glitter
Summary: A short M/R fic wherein Roger is an alcoholic. I wrote it as a gift for someone, so it's already finished. **Complete**
1. Chapter 1

A/N:  I wrote this as a Secret Santa gift for Nat. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: The title belongs to Stehphen Trask (or John Cameron Mitchell) and is from Hedwig, as are the song lyrics below. I just stole it for the purpose of my story. And all the characters belong to the Jonathan Larson estate. Don't sue, I'm just a slightly obsessed musical theatre fan. I have no money.

Dedication: Backstgartist (Nat). Happy holidays!

* * *

Mark and Roger sat on the couch together, watching a rented movie, "Hedwig and the Angry Inch". It had been Mark who picked out the movie, and the filmmaker who had forced Roger to watch it against his will.

Roger was only now bouncing back from his four months depression after his long term girlfriend, Mimi, died after fighting – and losing – a long battle with the AIDS virus. 

The musician, still engrossed in his heartache and depression, sat quietly next to his friend, but for once he didn't try to tune out his pain or block the world around him. Instead he kept very still, listening intently to the movie playing across their "borrowed" television set.

When the earth was still flat,  
And the clouds made of fire,  
And mountains stretched up to the sky,  
Sometimes higher,  
Folks roamed the earth  
Like big rolling kegs.  
They had two sets of arms.  
They had two sets of legs.  
They had two faces peering  
Out of one giant head  
So they could watch all around them  
As they talked; while they read.  
And they never knew nothing of love.  
It was before the origin of love.  
  
The origin of love  
  
And there were three sexes then,  
One that looked like two men  
Glued up back to back,  
Called the children of the sun.  
And similar in shape and girth  
Were the children of the earth.  
They looked like two girls  
Rolled up in one.  
And the children of the moon  
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.  
They were part sun, part earth  
Part daughter, part son.  
  
The origin of love  
  
Now the gods grew quite scared  
Of our strength and defiance  
And Thor said,  
"I'm gonna kill them all  
With my hammer,  
Like I killed the giants."  
And Zeus said, "No,  
You better let me  
Use my lightening, like scissors,  
Like I cut the legs off the whales  
And dinosaurs into lizards."  
Then he grabbed up some bolts  
And he let out a laugh,  
Said, "I'll split them right down the middle.  
Gonna cut them right up in half."  
And then storm clouds gathered above  
Into great balls of fire  
  
And then fire shot down  
From the sky in bolts  
Like shining blades  
Of a knife.  
And it ripped  
Right through the flesh  
Of the children of the sun  
And the moon  
And the earth.  
And some Indian god  
Sewed the wound up into a hole,  
Pulled it round to our belly  
To remind us of the price we pay.  
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile  
Gathered up a big storm  
To blow a hurricane,  
To scatter us away,  
In a flood of wind and rain,  
And a sea of tidal waves,  
To wash us all away,  
And if we don't behave  
They'll cut us down again  
And we'll be hopping round on one foot  
And looking through one eye.  
  
Last time I saw you  
We had just split in two.  
You were looking at me.  
I was looking at you.  
You had a way so familiar,  
But I could not recognize,  
Cause you had blood on your face;  
I had blood in my eyes.  
But I could swear by your expression  
That the pain down in your soul  
Was the same as the one down in mine.   
That's the pain,  
Cuts a straight line  
Down through the heart;  
We called it love.  
So we wrapped our arms around each other,  
Trying to shove ourselves back together.  
We were making love,  
Making love.  
It was a cold dark evening,  
Such a long time ago,  
When by the mighty hand of Jove,  
It was the sad story  
How we became  
Lonely two-legged creatures,  
It's the story of  
The origin of love.  
That's the origin of love.

It was the kind of song that made you think. Though the topic was something Roger had been trying to avoid for some time now. Sighing, the musician bowed his head, looking away from the screen, and tried to focus his thoughts on Mimi. His sweet, beautiful, loving, talented Mimi. Not on the man who sat next to him, the man who held Roger's world in the palm of his hand. 

He almost willed his grief to come back, almost tried to summon up the depression he had felt after Mimi passed away four months ago. Because the thoughts that had been spinning in his head lately… Well, they weren't right. They were bad thoughts, ones he knew he should not be thinking. He should be thinking of Mimi, not of how much he wanted to-

"Rog?"

Roger jerked his head up and looked at the filmmaker, praying that his feelings were hidden, praying that Mark thought the sudden bout of melancholy was due to his grieving Mimi, and not of the longing for his best friend.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay? You seem…a little spaced out."

"I'm fine," Roger answered hastily, pulling away from the arm that had found its way across his broad shoulders.

Mark frowned and withdrew the appendage. "You sure?"

The musician nodded and looked down, yearning to hide his burning face from Mark's view.

"Rog, you know you can tell me any-"

"It's _nothing_," Roger snapped, rising from the couch and storming into his own room. Once inside, he sighed and flopped down on his bed. Why did this have to happen to him? Was it even happening at all? And if it was, how could he get rid of it? Because he knew that's what had to be done. He needed to rid himself of these unwanted feelings of – of what? Lust? Love? – for his best friend. It was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking that kind of thing, let alone consider the possibility that something positive could ever come of it.

Meanwhile, while Roger was sulking in his room, Mark was staring at his friend's closed door, perplexed, and wondering if he should go in after him. Although he would never admit it to the musician, Mark was worried. 

Ever since Mimi's death Roger hadn't been the same. He'd always been a bit depressed, distant, closing himself off to the world. But in the past four months he had been even more so than usual. Often times Mark even wondered if he was using again, but he was always quick to cast those thoughts aside. He knew Roger knew better than that by now. Or at least he damn well hoped so.

Mark sighed as he stood from the battered sofa to turn the movie off. It wasn't like he had been paying attention anyway. He knew it was normal to grieve someone you loved when they passed away, but Roger's behavior lately had been going above and beyond the levels of grieving.

Drugs? No. He knew that drugs were not the problem this time around. What the problem was, he didn't know. The only thing he really knew for sure was that there was indeed a problem, and that it was more than the usual depression that follows after losing a loved one.


	2. Chapter 2

Roger giggled. A shrill, alcohol induced laugh that pierced through the silence of the loft, catching the attention of the filmmaker in the other room.

Blearily, Mark rose from his bed after checking the clock – 4:00 a.m. – and headed into the room next to his own.

"Roger?" Mark mumbled, stumbling into the darkness of the musician's room. "What's going on?"

Mark searched blindly for the light switch and shielded his eyes from the glowing vibrancy of the overhead light when it finally switched on.

Mark looked at the empty bed before him, the sheets tucked under the mattress like they hadn't been slept in all night.

"Roger," he repeated, stepping into the living room. The sight should have made him gasp, should have surprised him, or at the very least, concerned him. But it didn't. Because it was one that Mark had, unfortunately, gotten very used to in the past three or four weeks.

Roger sat on the floor in front of the sofa, surrounded by dozens of empty beer cans (some from previous nights when Mark had been too tired or frustrated to clean up after his deteriorating friend), staring intently at the patterns of worn fabric and small holes, as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Though Mark knew he was probably just trying to steady himself. The front of his shirt was stained with dirt and dried vomit, and Mark sighed, wondering how Roger even made it home on his own.

"Roger, where were you?" Mark asked wearily, knowing that it was pointless. He never got a straight answer anymore. It was always, "Out," or "With some friends," or if it was a particularly aggravating night, "Mind your own fucking business."

"Nowhere," Roger mumbled, lifting his gaze for only a second to acknowledge the filmmaker's presence before turning his attention back to the ripped fabric of the couch.

Mark sighed again and lifted Roger underneath the arms, much to the musician's annoyance. Roger struggled in Mark's arms but the filmmaker's grip was unrelenting as he half carried the man twice his size into the bathroom.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Roger snapped, dropping to the floor with a slight "oof" as Mark released him.

"You're going to be sick."

"No I'm-"

But he was interrupted by the sudden waves of nausea churning through his stomach and he leaned over the toilet, hating Mark for being right yet again.

The filmmaker sighed and walked out of the bathroom, ignoring the gagging sounds he heard behind him as he closed the door and retreated to his room. He was so sick of it. Sick of the alcohol, sick being woken up at ungodly hours of the night to the sounds of his friend's stumbling around the apartment, sick of waiting up at night just to make sure he was safe and hadn't gotten himself killed or arrested, and sick of Roger's stupidity in general.

The two had been friends since high school. Day after day Roger would come into school wearing makeup to hide the bruises and scratches doled out by his father. Mark never asked about the wounds, but he knew from spending nights at his friend's house what was happening. And he knew why.

Maybe that's the reason Mark was so angry, so frustrated and upset. When you have an alcoholic parent, you do _not_ drink the way Roger had been doing! Alcoholism can be inherited, passed down from abusive parent to abusive child.

Mark immediately regretted that thought. Roger wasn't abusive. No, he didn't know what he was doing, and therefore it could not be considered abuse.

But another voice in Mark's head laughed at his rationalization and told him otherwise. Screamed that Roger was doing to Mark just what his father had done to Roger as a child. And his dad _was_ abusive…right?

As if that question needed to be answered. Mark had seen the bruises, the scars, and the casts that covered his multiple fractures. If that wasn't abuse, he didn't know what was.

Gingerly, Mark pressed a hand to the large purplish splotch on his stomach and winced as his hand came in contact with the wound. He didn't mean to do it, he was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing, didn't…

Suddenly a crash from the other room tore Mark away from his thoughts and he rose from his bed to tentatively peer his head out the door to see what happened.

What he saw was Roger laying on the floor, face down, next to the coffee table that had been turned on its side from the weight of the fall.

Blinking back the unwanted tears forming in his azure eyes, Mark stepped out of the doorway and carried Roger to his bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed and pressing a Kleenex to the trickle of blood trailing down Roger's forehead.

Why did this have to happen? Things had been going so well before Mimi's death. Roger had gotten together with a new band, they were getting more and more gigs, gaining popularity within the East Village. And even after she died, Roger had continued to write songs. Continued to play his guitar – though it was mostly "Your Eyes" that he played – continued to live. But now… Now it was back to the old days before Mimi, before even April. Right back to the days where heroin controlled Roger's every move and every thought. Only this time the culprit wasn't a drug. No, the thing that held Roger captive this time was the same thing that held his father in its grips so many years ago. Alcohol.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mark?" Roger asked, eyebrow raised, as the filmmaker appeared from his room holding a duffel bag, and his camera in the other hand. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Mark muttered, walking past his friend without so much as a second glance. He was almost there. Almost reached the safety of the front door. But a hand on his shoulder stopped him abruptly in his tracks. He had to will himself not to cower in fear as he slowly turned to face the musician. He expected to see an angry, harsh, face glaring back at him, and so was shocked when he instead saw an expression of hopeless depression and guilt, eyes brimming over with tears on the face that had been devoid of emotion for so long now.

"Mark," Roger whispered, barely audible. "Why? I mean… You can't go…"

Mark sighed heavily and inched backwards toward the doorway in fear as he started his explanation.

"I can't take it anymore. I can't spend my whole life making sure that you don't kill yourself, don't get arrested, don't fucking _die_ of alcohol poisoning! I can't let my life revolve around you any longer," Mark stated, hoping the tear trickling down his cheek had gone unnoticed.

Instead of the angry reaction Mark had expected, the musician stepped forward and bit his quivering lower lip, obviously at a loss for words.

"I… I… Please don't go," Roger whispered, afraid to speak any louder in fear that he would break out in sobs.

"Why not, Roger?" Mark exclaimed, dropping the duffel bag with a heavy thud. "Why _should_ I stay? So you can punch me around? Steal my money? Use me again? Tell me, why the fuck should I stick around here anymore?"

"I-I'm sorry… I never meant to… Mark, I'm sorry. Please, please don't leave…"

"Why not? It's obvious that you don't care about me anymore, maybe you never did-"

At this last statement Roger lost the battle with his tears and let them cascade down his cheeks, not even trying to stop them anymore.

"How the fuck could you say that?" he shouted, his voice coming out in loud, desperate choking sobs. "How could you think I don't care about you?"

Mark eyed the musician for a second before placing his camera down on the table littered with empty beer cans, and lifted up his shirt, revealing dozens of black and blue marks, scratches, and lacerations. It was like a rash, his body was adorned with the marks left by Roger in his drunken rage.

"Do you do this to someone you care about?"

Roger was silent for what seemed like lifetimes. The seconds ticked by, each growing heavier and heavier than the previous. He could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest, the screaming in his ears, the sound of his heavy breathing as he took in the state of his best friend. The state he left him in.

Finally he managed to pull himself together just enough to form the words he so desperately hoped would convince Mark to stay.

"I-I'm sorry, I never…I never meant to hurt you. I do care, I _do_, more than anything… Please stay, please… I'll get help, I don't want to hurt you anymore…" Roger was sobbing by this point, was on the floor, unable to hold his own weight anymore.

Mark hated himself for standing in that doorway. This was the perfect opportunity. _Get out while he's weak, he won't be able to stop you._ But he couldn't move himself from that one spot, and he couldn't help feeling sorry for the broken man who lay at his feet. Was this how Roger felt in high school, when he refused to admit to anyone what was really happening in his home? Mark knew he should leave now, that he shouldn't listen to Roger's lies anymore, but he couldn't just throw away fifteen years of friendship that easily. As much as he would have liked to.

"You say that now, Roger, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after that, what about the next time you need a drink and I won't let you have one? How do I know you're not going to do it again? How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know that things won't go right back to the way they were?"

The question hung heavily in the air as both men let it sink in. Roger knew what he had to say, what he had to do. But… He had been denying it for so long, not only to Mark, but to himself as well. It was the reason he had started drinking in the first place.

After waiting an eternity in that endless silence, Mark gave him one last final look and picked up his duffel bag.

"Because I love you."

He dropped the bag, turned around. Stood frozen again in the doorway as he took in the words and tried to interpret their meaning.

"What?" he whispered.

"I love you," Roger stated, more firmly than before as he absorbed everything the words meant to him. "I love you and I'd kill myself if you left. I never meant to hurt you, I swear Mark, and I'll never forgive myself for this. I screwed up, I know I did. But please, please don't leave…"

Mark didn't know what to do, what to say. If he should say anything. Half of him told him to run, but the other half screamed to stay, to hold Roger, to help him, and to promise he would stay by his side until it was over.

Finally, Mark gave into his heart and got down beside Roger on the floor, holding him as the musician cried onto his shoulder.

"You'll go to rehab?"

Roger hesitated for only a second before agreeing. Inside, he wondered why the filmmaker was so quiet. He had just confessed his love for the other man, and he wasn't saying one word about it. Had he misinterpreted the meaning of the words? Did he think he meant it as a best friend or in a brotherly way? Did he return his feelings? Was he freaked out? There were so many questions spinning through Roger's head, he couldn't even make sense of them. So he did the only thing he could think of at this point: he leaned down and kissed Mark firmly on the lips.


	4. Chapter 4

"How long will you be gone for?"

Mark and Roger were standing on the street corner, just outside their apartment building, waiting for Roger's cab. Mark's mother had agreed to loan Mark the money to pay for Roger's treatment, and so in a few minutes the musician would be placed in rehab for the second – and hopefully last – time in his life.

Roger shrugged and scuffed his feet on the dusty road below him. "It's a thirty day program so I shouldn't be gone for too long." He shrugged again as he shifted his weight and fidgeted with the backpack he held in his hands.

Mark, sensing the musician's discomfort and hesitancy, said, "You're doing the right thing. It's much better this way."

Roger gave a noncommittal nod as a taxi rolled down the street and came to a halt in front of the two men.

The filmmaker shifted his weight nervously and Roger continued to stare at the ground, neither of them knowing how to say goodbye. Finally, Mark wrapped his arms around his friend and whispered, "Call if you need anything," as he felt warm droplets fall onto his shoulder. 

Mark tightened his embrace, trying to ignore his own feelings of doubt and confusion, in an effort to make this just a little bit easier on Roger. 

Mark knew how much Roger hated rehab. He had been told so dozens of times before after the musician had gotten home that first time. And Mark knew what a big deal it was for Roger to admit that he needed help, and to actually check himself into a treatment center again. Those things, coupled with the soft touches and whispered apologies of the past few days, convinced Mark that Roger was serious this time. That the words weren't just lies, that he really did want help. That he was sorry and wanted to change. And Mark clung onto those reassurances because, right now, it was all he had.

Finally, Roger pulled away and with all the willpower he possessed, he forced himself into the taxi, preparing himself for what he was sure would be the worst thirty days of his life.

Mark stood in that spot for a long time after Roger's cab drove away. Just standing there thinking. Thinking of nothing, and thinking of everything. His mind drifted back to that day three months ago when he and Roger had watched "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" together. The movie had come to play an important part in his life, ever since that night he had threatened to leave the loft for good.

Apparently Roger had taken a liking to the movie as well, because he had gone and bought the soundtrack a mere two days after seeing it for the first time.

"The Origin of Love". That was the song he played over and over and over again. And now Mark could see why.

Sighing, Mark ascended the stairway up to the loft and gently ran his tongue across his lips. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could almost still taste Roger's lips on his own. Feel his warm breath mixing with his, could still feel his pulse quicken as Roger had deepened the kiss…

Neither of them had mentioned it since it happened. Mark was almost beginning to think that it hadn't happened at all; maybe he had dreamt it all up. It had to be a dream. A crazy nightmare. Because Mark Cohen was not gay, and certainly was _not_ in love with his best friend. Best friend. Friends, and nothing more.

Maybe if he kept telling himself that he would believe it.

Mark sighed again and looked up, realizing that he had reached his floor. He turned the key in the lock and flopped down on the couch. He was already bored and Roger had not even been gone ten minutes. It would be a long thirty days.


	5. Chapter 5

The musician lifted his bag from the back seat of the cab after paying the driver, and quietly walked upstairs to the loft. His thirty days were over, but he hadn't called to tell Mark he would be coming home today.

"Mark?" Roger called out softly, but his only response was silence. He went over to the filmmaker's door and tapped lightly but the only thing he got in return was the quietness and stillness that hung in the loft, almost as if it were a tangible object.

It was stupid. He didn't know why he did what he did. Maybe it was a test of his strength, maybe it was because he knew he would never really do it. Or maybe it was because he just wasn't ready to stop and knew he couldn't go through another withdrawal.

But whatever the reason was, he walked quietly over to the refrigerator – almost as though he were afraid of being caught, despite his being alone in the apartment – and looked for something…anything…alcoholic. But, of course, there was nothing to be found. After all, what idiot would leave alcohol in the apartment of a recovering alcoholic?

Disappointed, Roger sighed and sunk down on the couch. He could always go out and buy something, go to a bar, but… No. No, he had promised Mark he would stop and he was determined to stick to his word. He owed at least that to his friend, after all he had put him through.

Laying back and stretching his body across the length of the sofa, Roger let his mind wander back to his thirty days in rehab, or "hell" as he liked to call it. It actually wasn't as bad as he had expected. He thought it would be like heroin withdrawal, where he wouldn't even be able to _move_ for the first three or four days. And while it had been awful, it was nowhere near as bad as his first experience in a rehab center.

Suddenly the sound of a key turning in the lock caught Roger's attention and he sat up just as Mark walked into the apartment.

"Roger!"

The filmmaker dropped the bag of groceries he had been carrying on the floor and ran to greet his friend.

Roger wrapped his arms around the smaller man, reveling in the feeling of being so close to him.

"Why didn't you call? You didn't tell me you were coming home today!"

"I wanted to surprise you," Roger said, smiling slightly.

"So how was it?"

The musician made a face. "Do you even have to ask?"

"That bad?"

Roger shrugged as he sat back on the couch and kicked his feet up on the decrepit coffee table.

"It wasn't as bad as heroin, but yeah, it was awful."

Mark nodded, looking thoughtful.

"You're going to AA, right?"

"I suppose you're leaving me no choice in the matter."

"No, I'm not."

Roger sighed. "Then yeah. I guess I'm going."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments. Finally Mark cleared his throat and said, "I rented a movie."

The musician groaned. "Oh God, if it's another one of those artsy films…"

"No, I think you'll like this one."

Roger raised an eyebrow, trying to see into the Blockbuster bag Mark carried over to the VCR.

"What'd you get?"

"Hedwig."

"Oh."

The silence resumed as the two watched the movie, neither knowing what to say or do.

As "The Origin of Love" came on Roger noticed Mark inching a little closer to him, but he pretended not to notice.

Finally Mark was so close that he was pressed up against the musician's side. "Rog?" he breathed out, sending a warm breath of air over Roger's ear.

Roger shifted uncomfortably (though the position was far from uncomfortable) and took a deep breath to steady himself before he replied.

"Yeah?"

"Do you… Do you think we're each other's other half?"

_And there were three sexes then,  
One that looked like two men  
Glued up back to back,  
Called the children of the sun.  
And similar in shape and girth  
Were the children of the earth.  
They looked like two girls  
Rolled up in one.  
And the children of the moon  
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.  
They were part sun, part earth  
Part daughter, part son.___

"W-what?" Roger asked in disbelief. No, it wasn't possible. Mark didn't love him the way he loved Mark…

"I've been thinking. And, I don't know, this probably sounds crazy… But maybe you're my, you know, my other half." Mark blushed and laughed a little, realizing how corny he must sound.

_Last time I saw you  
We had just split in two.  
You were looking at me.  
I was looking at you.  
You had a way so familiar,  
But I could not recognize,  
Cause you had blood on your face;  
I had blood in my eyes.  
But I could swear by your expression  
That the pain down in your soul  
Was the same as the one down in mine.___

Roger smiled. Placed a warm hand on the filmmaker's cheek and ran his finger along the jaw line.

"I don't know. Maybe."

Roger smiled again, praying that Mark was feeling the same thing he was.

"Are you saying…" But he let his voice trail off, too scared of the reply to actually ask the question out lout.

But Mark just grinned and leaned in a little closer, immersing himself in Roger's touch. He didn't need to hear the words said aloud, he already knew what Roger was trying to say.

"Yeah. I think… I think I love you too."

_That's the pain,  
Cuts a straight line  
Down through the heart;  
We called it love.  
So we wrapped our arms around each other,  
Trying to shove ourselves back together.  
We were making love,  
Making love.  
It was a cold dark evening,  
Such a long time ago,  
When by the mighty hand of Jove,  
It was the sad story  
How we became  
Lonely two-legged creatures,  
It's the story of  
The origin of love.  
That's the origin of love.___

Roger's heart lifted as he absorbed Mark's words. He cupped his hand underneath Mark's chin and brought Mark's face forward until their lips met. 

There were still things to talk about, still things to work out. There were still problems, and Roger's alcoholism to take into consideration. But at that moment, they didn't care. They could deal with everything else later. Right now, being together was all that mattered. 

When they finally broke apart, panting, Roger snickered and Mark looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing… It's just, most people spend their entire lives searching for their other half."

"So?"

Roger smiled again and leaned in to kiss Mark gently on the lips.

"We already found ours."

A/N:  It's so fluffy it makes me nauseous. I feel the need to kill off a character right now… But it's Christmas. And I figured we could all use a little fluff now and then, right?


End file.
